


Dream of Paradise

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [5]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Er..., He'll be overwhelmed, M/M, That's a lot of Farrells, poor dylan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 16:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19066663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Owen’s still-brilliant gaze fixes on him and the younger man lurches forward in his direction, all ecstatic beams and gleaming triumph through sweat-drenched hair and grass-stained kit.The aftermath of yesterday's Premiership win - from Dylan's point of view.





	Dream of Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the tags; I think I drank too much lake water. Or maybe got hit a bit too hard in the head. Or I'm still feeling Friday night's set, because oh my life, that one was tough. One of my favourites, but I was shot by the end. And going to the Prem final maybe wasn't the best way to recover, but I don't think dressing up as a nun and going on the piss is the best way to recover from the game itself (What. A. Game!!!), and Goodey is a professional sportsman, so...
> 
> So Sarries won the final! I don't know if anyone else went, but Owen and Gabe had a really cute interaction pre-match, and little Tommy was there afterwards! I mean, you can tell that by looking at Owen's mum's insta, but... Owen was holding him before they went to get the trophy, and It. Was. *Adorable*. Also, both Brad and Owen lifting the trophy together was a nice touch; having watched that footage many times over due to seeing it all over social media and being unable to resist the adrenaline rush, I'm pretty sure that not only was Vincent trying to give Owen a quick lesson on what to do with his free arm, but Owen actually did a countdown for him and Brad. Proper class, that. 
> 
> Umm... Yes. So I wrote this because why not, I'm back to my usual procrastinating ways, and seeing Owen with his real family made me think about him with his fictional family. I've kind of started the longer piece I'm doing form Dylan's PoV, but it's probably going to be slow-going for a bit, so I might not get it out for a while. I'm also still working on that Brad/Beauden thing every once in a while, so there's that. 
> 
> (Just been trying to explain the Barbarians and the Cips situation - lovely sibilance - to my parents. An interesting conversation, but not one I'm particularly keen on repeating. Also, Dylan's insta story right now is great - feeling just a little bad for Chris Ashton and Hask...)

Dylan should really know better than to lose faith in his boyfriend’s club by now. He should know not to let that sinking feeling settle into his bones if they aren’t firing in the first half – or even three quarters – of the match, that they’re still highly likely to find a way, because that’s just – to Dylan’s own teammates’ irritation – what they _do_. He should certainly know that, when Owen’s face is growing steadily darker with each dropped pass, each knock-on, each miss from the tee, his boyfriend isn’t about to give up and let a trophy slip through his fingers like that. No, Owen has far too much of a hunger for silverware, for success and _winning_ – they all do at Saracens, in a way that Dylan would like to say that he and all of his teammates do too, but sometimes, he just _doubts_ – and the worst part is that Owen _knows_ how to win. All of Saracens do. They just don’t lose finals.

So, when one try comes, and Owen makes the conversion, and suddenly the win looks more than manageable – only four points in it, _come on_ – Dylan really shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe, deep down, he’s not. That doesn’t stop him from shifting forward on the edge of his seat, however, gripping the Saracens flag that he’s somehow acquired with rigid fingers as he wills the Saracens boys on desperately. Never, not once in his life, has he wanted a team other than his own to win so badly.

Next to him, Gabe is practically vibrating with energy, bouncing on his own plastic seat, and if the match were any less riveting, Dylan might be distracted by the constant movement in his peripheral vision. As it is, he’d be hard-pressed to tear his gaze from the action on-field even if he wanted to.

And then it’s ten minutes to go and Saracens have _another_ try; they’re in the lead, and six minutes later, they’re at it again. Dylan can feel himself buzzing with nervous anticipation, fidgeting almost as much as Gabe and barely even aware of his own body’s movements, too caught up in the unfolding victory to be bothered. His hair could be on fire, for all he’d notice – or care.

Watching the clock tick down to 00:00, and then Exeter’s conversion, is merely a formality. Dylan’s already on his feet, cheering loudly as the crowd roars around him, until _finally_ , it’s official. Saracens are Champions of England; they’ve done the double yet again, and the sheer joy on Owen’s face is the best bit of all of it. Dylan wouldn’t care about it, would only be disappointed that Saints didn’t get through, if not for his boyfriend. In all honesty, watching Owen win is one of the best things Dylan has ever seen – and he hopes it keeps coming for a long while yet.

Slowly, the team start to filter towards where their wives and girlfriends wait for them at the side of the pitch, Owen following just a little cautiously, almost seeming reluctant if not for the faint hope that Dylan can read in his expression regardless of the distance. Owen’s looking for him, he identifies. Hurriedly, he picks his way down through the stands and out to the edge of the pitch, grinning as Owen’s still-brilliant gaze fixes on him and the younger man lurches forward in his direction, all ecstatic beams and gleaming triumph through sweat-drenched hair and grass-stained kit, limbs trembling just a little with exhaustion when Dylan leans over the barrier to wrap arms around him.

“Well done,” Dylan whispers, ignoring the mud and dye that Owen could well be smearing over his clothing – uncaring that, for these brief seconds, he’s practically carrying Owen entirely. “Well done.”

Turning his head, he kisses the side of Owen’s clammy, perspiration-soaked hair – goes to do it again, only for Owen to turn and meet him, their lips brushing gently for a second before Owen pulls back to grin at him.

“We won,” his boyfriend laughs just a little, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his giddy joy, and Dylan can only nod, willing to do whatever necessary to maintain this mood for as long as possible – not that he thinks Owen will really need any help with that.

“Premiership champions…” Dylan muses, a smile tugging at his lips once more. “Again.”

Owen laughs, loud and bright.

“Again,” his boyfriend agrees, with more than a little relish. “Brad wants me to lift the trophy with him.”

“Yeah?” Dylan can’t help leaning in to kiss Owen again; he looks so happy, so radiant in his success. “You were Captain half this match, fifty minutes last week, and in however many other games.”

“It’d be nice,” Owen admits, a mischievous edge quirking his beam upwards still. “Get my hands on it before the rest of the lads.”

Snorting just a little, Dylan tightens his arms to squeeze Owen ever so slightly, then frowns as Owen shifts and hisses quietly.

“You alright?” he asks, and gets a nod.

“Just skinned my knee.”

Looking down, Dylan takes in the large patch of raw skin with a grimace – it’s almost sickeningly red and likely very painful, though not the worst he’s seen – then checks over Owen’s shoulder.

“You should go and join your teammates again,” he murmurs, and Owen twists to look as well, taking in the Saracens boys who are just starting to gather to his right.

“Yeah,” he agrees, the sheer joy that dances across his expression as he takes in his team convincing Dylan that it’s probably best if he lets go now, gives Owen space to join the rest of the Sarries lads.

“Off you go,” he prompts, drawing back and nudging Owen towards them, and receives one last dazzling grin before Owen moves away.

It’s almost ten minutes later – ten minutes of singing and cheering from Dylan, and similar from Saracens but with added champagne – that he gets another moment of contact with Owen, his boyfriend’s family having joined him now as well. Owen’s expression has fallen back into its usual solemn front, but his eyes crinkle just a little, gleaming with the depth of his pleasure, and every once in a while, his lips twitch upwards. By the time Owen returns, Dylan’s spoken to both Jack – whose red-rimmed eyes had him turning down his own glee as best he could while he enquired about the Winger’s injury – and Luke, getting a brief wave from Henry as well, and has allowed himself a brief moment of faint bitterness while listening to the pundits lauding Saracens’ success; they had their struggles, he knows, and they’ve worked from the bottom up to get where they are, though it’s easy to forget – Owen among them, even if the younger players might not have had the same experience.

“Dyl!”

Owen’s all but soaked in champagne, the sweat washed away by a shower of expensive alcohol; Dylan doesn’t pay it any mind as he draws his boyfriend back into his arms, Owen laughing softly in his ear before drawing away to greet his family.

Somehow, Dylan suspects that he won’t be seeing much of Owen over the next few days – though hopefully, Owen will eventually sober up enough to remember that life outside Saracens exists and that he’s actually meant to be going on a quiet holiday with Dylan in a week…

With any luck, Owen will maintain the sense of mind not to let Saracens come over for a house party. Or if the worst comes to pass and he _does_ … he won’t upset Alex Goode. It might not technically be Dylan’s house, but it’s still _home_ , and Dylan doesn’t fancy the address being pasted across social media. Unless, of course, Owen begs out early to avoid getting too drunk – which, knowing him, could be just as likely. Probably not, given it’s the end of the season.

Owen returns to him, Gabe practically hanging off the younger man, far more quickly than expected. For a moment, Dylan can only raise a confused eyebrow, then Owen leans in, voice dropping to a whisper.

“If I go now, Mum might not get around to forcing me into a photo with the cup.”

Snorting, Dylan opens his mouth to try and persuade Owen otherwise, if only for poor Colleen’s sake, but Gabe beats him to it in rather a different fashion.

“ _Mum_!” he yells. “Owen’s trying to get out of a photo!”

The shocked betrayal that morphs Owen’s face makes being shoved along to find the cup and cajoled into joining the picture more than worth it, in Dylan’s books. At the very least, getting to take his time for one last kiss before Owen attempts a successful escape more than makes up for the pictures that Dylan’s pretty sure both Andy and Colleen – and maybe Gracie and Elle, for all he knows – manage to snap.

“Enjoy yourself, yeah?” he tells his boyfriend, grinning at the way Owen rolls his eyes.

“Yes, _Mother_.”

“Owen!” Colleen’s sharp reprimand almost makes Dylan jump – would have, if not for the fact that the woman is standing in his line of sight; as it is, Owen looks almost like a deer caught in headlights, twisting to shoot his real mother a sheepishly apologetic glance. “Be _nice_. And do enjoy yourself, but be careful, understand?”

“Mum,” Owen’s tone is utterly incredulous, “How many times have I done this? I’m _27_.”

“And you’re my son.”

“I wouldn’t worry, love,” Andy grins, throwing an arm over his eldest’s shoulders, and Dylan sees Owen’s eyes narrow in suspicion, clearly mistrustful of the apparent show of support. “One of his old teammates called him a glass of water the other day. He’ll be fine.”

“ _Dad_!” Owen shrugs his father’s arm away. “We’ve just won the Prem. Can you… I don’t know, leave it for a few days?”

“Embrace it!” Jamie George cheers, lunging in from who knows where to wrap an arm around Owen and start to drag him away. “I’m a fishbowl, you’re a glass of water…”

The last Dylan sees of his boyfriend before he disappears into the crowd of Saracens players and staff, now heading towards the changing rooms, is a laughing Owen trying in vain to push Jamie’s arm away as the Hooker attempts to press the mouth of a beer bottle to his lips, eventually giving up and tipping it over his head instead.

“Come on then, Dylan,” Andy nudges him. “We’ve got some stories to tell you while Owen isn’t here.”

_Well, this promises to be good…_

 

“…Owen?”

The room is dark, lit only by the light streaming in from behind Dylan, streaking across the floor and not, fortunately for the barely distinguishable lump in the middle of the bed, doing anything to penetrate the surrounding gloom. Patiently, Dylan waits, but when he doesn’t receive a reply, he tries again.

“Owen.”

This time, he’s rewarded with a wordless, muffled groan, filled with such pain and exhaustion that there’s little he can do beside wince in sympathy.

“You want something to eat?”

The sound Owen makes is disgusted – nauseated even – as he seems to burrow deeper still into the covers, despite how hot he must be feeling.

“I’ll get you some water and something for your head, yeah?”

Finally, Owen peers out from under the pillow, which he’s managed to wrap around his ears in combination with the duvet, apparently in an unsuccessful attempt to block out any noise.

“Some silence would be nice,” he rasps, and clearly regrets it, cringing away from the sound of his own voice to wriggle gingerly back into his bundle of bedclothes.

“Aw…” Dylan pouts just a little mockingly, but decides against pressing the point; his ailing boyfriend is obviously vulnerable and defenceless right now, so it wouldn’t be fair.

He’ll save the teasing until later, then – when he can show Owen the pictures that Colleen has put on her Instagram, and start to casually bring up all of the stories he’s heard.

For now, he probably should get the drink and meds he’s offered.

When Owen’s finally feeling functional enough to sit up and nurse a glass of water on his own, Dylan inches the curtains open just a little, biting back a smirk at the dark bruises under Owen’s eyes and the wrecked demeanour presented.

“I hate Alex,” Owen complains hoarsely, barely even audible in the quiet of the bedroom. “I fucking _hate_ him.”

“Which one?” Dylan asks patiently, and isn’t entirely sure what he’s done to warrant the savage glare that Owen shoots him.

“ _Goode_ ,” Owen practically spits the name. “Dressed up as a fucking _nun_ , going ‘round getting me smashed…”

Calmly sympathetic, Dylan nods along until Owen’s head decides that he’s made more than enough noise for one day.

“You won,” he reminds gently when Owen does fall silent.

“I know,” Owen grouses, though the slight crinkle at the outer corners of his eyes tells Dylan that he’s happy to hear it. “All I’ve fucking heard since.”

For a moment, Dylan stands and watches in amusement as Owen continues to shift cautiously into a more comfortable position, one hand raised as if to shield his head while the other clutches tightly to the glass of water that Dylan has provided him with. Then, when Owen looks to have settled, he approaches and sits carefully, trying not to jostle Owen too much as he slips an arm around his boyfriend and brushes the lightest of kisses over Owen’s cheek.

“Want to see what your mum put on Instagram?” he offers.

“No,” Owen grumbles, but he’s already peering in interest at Dylan’s phone, half-squinting through his ongoing hangover.

The first picture is of Owen, Gabe, Elleshia, Gracie and Dylan, all gathered around the trophy with grin stretching their cheeks, and Owen softens visibly as he takes it in, a small smile tugging at the very edges of his lips as his eyes scan the screen slowly. Dylan indulges his need to look over it several times in order to properly comprehend it, apparently struggling with the bright screen, never mind the visual information, and only when Owen sits back does he flick to the picture of the two of them: Owen’s arms slung loosely around Dylan’s neck, Dylan’s hands in the process of smoothing down Owen’s sides, the winner’s medal glinting between their chests as their lips meet tenderly. Beside him, Owen huffs and – gingerly – rolls his eyes.

“Bloody romantic,” he grumbles, and Dylan can’t tell if he’s referring to his mother or the bright grin that’s spread across Dylan’s face at the mere sight of the picture.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” he prompts anyway, squeezing his boyfriend’s shoulders.

“Yeah,” Owen agrees, and the words are spoken too softly for it to be as casual a concession as Owen appears to be pretending it is. “Now, I need to sleep a bit more of this off.”

“I’ll wake you up in an hour and a half for something to eat,” Dylan promises, already taking the glass from Owen’s hand and setting it, with his phone, beside the bed. “Let you get another full sleep cycle.”

Carefully, he pulls Owen into his chest, letting the younger man settle himself comfortably then shifting so that he’s lying down with Owen curled partially on top of him, and cranes his neck to watch as Owen’s eyes slip closed, breaths evening out as sleep takes control once more. This feels domestic, comfortable, and Dylan’s hit with a pang of longing, a desperate wish that he could have this – or some variant of it – every day. If he could wake up with Owen next to him; fall asleep with his boyfriend relaxed against him, comfortable because of _his_ presence; make breakfast when Owen’s feeling rough, and maybe vice versa; talk rugby and their days without feeling the pressure of club rivalry and opposition…

He can have it when he’s retired; he _knows_ that, has said it aloud to Owen, has told himself it over and over again in the hopes that eventually, it will be enough. With any luck, it will start to work soon, because Dylan needs all of his motivation on getting fit, and if half of his mind is on the benefits of retiring young, it’s not going to help him. He doesn’t want to follow in Hask’s footsteps.

Shifting, Owen presses a little closer to him, and a hand curls loosely in Dylan’s t-shirt while Dylan pretends that Owen isn’t drooling just a little on him – and that he doesn’t remind Dylan of an overgrown child right now. The thought brings the faintest of smiles to his lips, though the expression fades into something wistful as he considers that maybe, one day, he could be able to see this every weekend – but that will be some time in the future, hopefully several years from now.

Permanent domesticity is a luxury that they can afford once he’s retired, and they’re both very much aware of it.

He just wants it _now_.


End file.
